Quick to Temper
by StickGirl
Summary: Rollin has some personal demons. Cinnamon tries to help.
1. Chapter 1

**Quick to Temper**

[]

"Are you all right?" he asked his associate, slightly tongue in cheek, as she sat in the passenger side of his sedan. "You took quite a tumble back there in the grass."

"All for the performance, Mr. Hand." Cinnamon smiled gently and blew a puff of smoke from her cigarette. It escaped out of the slightly cracked window of his car.

Their mark had been Bert Gordon, a deadly but superstitious criminal, and the IMF used all the best ghostly tricks Barney's technical and Rollin's theatrical training could devise. In the end, Gordon killed his own man, an equally as deadly gangster, and the police were – no doubt – detaining the kingpin for his murder.

Jim Phelps had his people pack up, load the van, and leave quickly. Then, when everything was put back in place, they separated. The team departed until they were once again called on.

Cinnamon lived not far from Rollin so he took her home.

"Here." He pulled a tissue from a box near his glove compartment.

"What's this for?" she asked, taking what was offered.

"Why don't you wipe that smudge off your cheek? Now that we're done you don't need to look like you're a refuge from a battered women's home."

Cinnamon shook her head and chuckled, stuffing the tissue into her purse. "I'm afraid I'll need concealer to get rid of this, Rollin." She took a last puff from her cigarette then squashed it in the vehicle's ashtray. When Cinnamon looked over at him, she was surprised to see her associate not only unsmiling but looking slightly disturbed. "Rollin?"

He pulled in front of her apartment building and shut off the car. Rollin Hand stared out of the driver's side window for a moment before he questioned: "Did Jim hit you?"

"Well, yes." Cinnamon eyed him quizzically, "I was the adulterous wife and he the drunk, jealous lout of a husband."

Rollin continued to look out the window. "You couldn't have just used make-up?"

Cinnamon was a little puzzled by his probing and the obvious strain in his expression. "It needed to look real. What if Gordon wanted a closer look?" She watched as Rollin's fingers on the steering wheel tightened.

He now looked at her, "So Jim Phelps hit you?"

Cinnamon shrugged a little, unsure what more she could say. "I'm fine, Rollin."

His hands slipped from the steering wheel and his head leaned back against the headrest, "He should never have hit you, Cinnamon."

"I …"

"_I_ would have found another way to do it."

"Rollin, _what_ is wrong with you?" she asked, genuinely confused. "You know Jim meant nothing by it. We're agents and sometimes we have to perform things we might not usually do." She wasn't sure she was getting through to him, "It was a part of the _mission_ and it's not permanent. Just a little bruise."

"He never should have laid a hand on you, Cinnamon." Rollin repeated, unyielding. His eyes met her own, "There _had_ to have been another way. The mark was not that necessary."

"It added clarity to my claim of Jim going wild …" Cinnamon stared at Rollin for a moment. It was night but there was a full moon. She could see his countenance; handsome, firm and troubled. Something was upsetting him. It was deeper than concern for her or anger at Jim Phelps' solution for a problem Rollin did not feel needed correction.

She had seen him like this once before when, during a mission, someone had slapped her. Rollin had jumped to his feet and was ready to stop him. It was not part of the mission and even Barney had wondered what their master of disguise was doing. Rollin Hand was a man of strong emotion.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Cinnamon.

He looked at her and nearly said _no_. Her gentle expression and searching eyes made him hesitate. So many men looked at her, saw the beauty and glamour, but never examined any further. He had and knew Cinnamon was not just lovely but educated and very sensible.

"Why don't you come on in for coffee and we'll talk." She said.

He yielded, got out of the car, and then moved to the other side, opening the door for Cinnamon. She pulled the keys from her purse as they walked to the door then let them both in.

The apartment was warm and traditional. Rollin had been in her place before. It was during the early days when Dan Briggs was still with the IMF. Rollin and Cinnamon had worked fairly close on a couple of assignments back then and they often had her going to his place or Rollin would make a run over here to discuss and fine tune plans. Their exchanges were always nice and comfortable and, during those times, they would indulge in a little flirtation. It was fun and harmless - until Briggs poked his nose into their business.

Just before Dan left them, he asked Rollin and Cinnamon to stay behind one evening after Barney and Willy departed his high-rise. Staring into his much beloved fish tank, he told the couple he suspected that their relationship was becoming a little too intimate for the agents to stay an effective working team. Both Rollin and Cinnamon were a little stunned.

No, of course nothing was going on between them. They certainly hadn't slept together even if the occasional intimate kiss they shared made them pause and wonder. The affection was pleasurable but they were merely playing; toying with one another and enjoying themselves. It was not to be taken seriously. _Flirting._ Attractive men and women did that.

It didn't mean anything … _really_. Much like a man hitting a woman hard enough to cause a bruise, all for the sake of a mission.

Cinnamon decided coffee was not strong enough and she poured them both a short brandy. She then sat beside him on the sofa and the couple clinked glasses.

He was still tense and thoughtful. She recalled Rollin behaving in a similar manner many months ago when Barney related the story about Cinnamon and Andre Fetchicov. He told his listeners how the handsome assassin pulled a gun on Miss Carter and tried to shoot her but Cinnamon had been clever enough to remove the bullets before the man retrieved his gun. It wasn't in their plan but she had thought ahead, knowing her target. Cinnamon recalled Rollin looking intently at her while she attempted to avoided eye contact with all her teammates, fearful they might see something in her she would rather keep secret. It had been a tough assignment. Andre was shrewd, handsome, and nearly made Cinnamon forget she was an undercover agent – but she was too good not to see him for what he truly was. Still, Rollin had perceived something in her, regret perhaps, and his expression showed trepidation and something more.

As it did now.

She was patient and waited for him until Rollin was ready to tell his story.

"When I was a kid …" Rollin Hand began his tale.

[]

(there is more to come)

Referred episodes:

"_The Killing" season 2_

"_The Short Tail Spy" season 1_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_**

"Were you ever actually a _kid_, Rollin?" Cinnamon could not help the quip and smiled gently at her companion as he leaned forward, looked at her, and hesitated in telling his tale.

If anyone with a less beautiful visage had interrupted his serious story with such a glib comment, Rollin might have stopped the story right there and declined to continue. However, he had worked with Miss Carter long enough to know she was trying to put him at ease. He was tense and his nervous body language was making her uneasy. "Yes." he answered, "A very long time ago." The upturn of his mouth melted into a thin line of remembrance as he pressed his lips tightly together. Rollin then drank a little from his glass and settled easily and quietly into the corner of her sofa.

"I'm sorry." Cinnamon said, recognizing her error. She had meant to make him comfortable but he had taken her question as moderate ridicule. Rollin Hand was still a fairly young man but at a time like this, seeing an expression of unease and vulnerability, he did seem older than a man in his mid thirties. "What were you going to say?"

He eyed her steadily, noted how she relaxed beside him and crossed her shapely legs, and indicated acquiescence. Cinnamon seemed sincere in her interest and she deserved an explanation, even if it was not all-encompassing. "I had an Aunt Julia who was married to a mean, sour man nearly fifteen years her senior. Now Julia, before she married, was bright, vivacious and beautiful. I was ten years old and I could see how men reacted to her. She did it all without trying. I often wondered if she had lived a long, full life if she would have stayed so innocent and fun. But, married to that bastard, I doubt it."

"What happened to her?"

"She and my Uncle were jumped while leaving a restaurant near Piazza Street in Brooklyn. He had a habit of flashing money around after he won at the horse races. Didn't happen often but when it did payoff he was a braggart. Some men followed them and they were mugged. My Aunt came out of it beaten and bruised but relatively okay. Or so we thought."

Cinnamon watched as Rollin took another taste of his drink. He was not looking at her now but was somewhere else, visualizing a time when he - a mere boy - could not make a difference. She pictured him at that age, watching and listening, but powerless to take action.

"My Uncle had himself checked out but told us he didn't think Julia's injuries were important enough to be examined. 'Nothing is broken.' he said. 'She's tougher than she looks.' Three months later Julia died from a brain hemorrhage of some kind."

"Caused by the mugging?"

Rollin looked directly at Cinnamon, "The coroner's report was inconclusive but many suspected that _was_ the cause and if he had just allowed the doctor to examine Julia it might have been detected early. There might have been enough time to save her life."

"Rollin, I'm very sorry about your Aunt but you can't be certain …"

"There's more."

Cinnamon, startled by his abruptness, tensed and listened.

Rollin took a breath before he explained, "Her husband had been systematically beating Julia since they were married. When she was examined post-mortem my aunt's body was a mass of dark bruises. He was arrested, convicted, given five years, served a year and they let him go on good behavior." Rollin emptied his glass and placed it on her coffee table with a sharp thud, "It was a travesty and ever since, when I hear of a man hitting a woman, I …" He looked over at her and was caught off guard by her sweet, knowing smile. "_What_?" he asked.

"I was just thinking … I don't know _why_ you don't have more girlfriends, Rollin Hand." Her admiration was genuine, "You are an exceptional man."

"I'm not lonely." Rollin assured, but then felt a little awkward having boasted such a thing to a respectable lady. "It's not unique for me or any man worth his salt to feel empathy for women who are being beaten." He shook his head back and forth, "I just had an experience as a child that left an impression."

Cinnamon said, "Yet, even at the young age of ten you already had a firm grasp of right and wrong when it came to such violence; men hurting women."

His words were soft, "I was a quiet kid in a loud household. There wasn't much that got past me." Glancing at the ashtray on her coffee table, Rollin took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered Cinnamon one, which she accepted. "Not such a revelation for most. Physical abuse of any kind should not be tolerated." As he lit the cigarette for her then himself, Rollin asked, "Didn't you have the same sense of right and wrong when you were a little girl?"

Cinnamon inhaled then gently blew smoke into the air. She said, "I suppose but I don't think I felt it as deeply as you, Rollin, at that age. I acknowledged evil as a girl but emotionally kept myself away from it. Actually, many things washed over me. I was stunted that way." She grew introspective for a moment, "I was twelve when my grandmother died and I adored her. But I never cried at her funeral." She murmured.

Rollin stared at her, unsure what to say. He knew Cinnamon had asked him in to help a fellow agent with a personal problem. However, he began to wonder about her past, a possible private trauma Cinnamon was reluctant to admit, but something that may have molded her resolve to be, at a very young age, a secret operative for her country.

Cinnamon shrugged and snapped back to the present, "I think maybe that is why I am a good agent today." She confirmed, "I keep myself removed and detached from the missions even though I am smack in the middle of the deceptions we create."

Rollin could have mentioned Andre Fetchicov, all he had been told and surmised on his own, but decided to keep quiet.

"But this is about you." She refocused, "And while I think it's admirable that you feel for those who are less fortunate, Rollin, I also know you need to keep your feelings to yourself. After all, I am sure there will be other missions where myself and other women you work with may need to endure some abuse before the assignment is complete – and we are fully capable of taking it if we must."

"I understand." Rollin inhaled deeply on his cigarette then breathed out, "For the sake of the mission."

"Unhunh."

"But that does not mean our _own_ people have to smack you around."

_Back to square one_. Cinnamon gave Rollin her best 'What am I going to do with you?' grin. As she flattened her cigarette in the ashtray, Miss Carter did not see the too sincere statement on his face.

What Cinnamon did not know was, despite his story and what happened to Aunt Julia, Rollin did know the difference. If another female agent was to allow herself the indignity of being hurt for a mission, he would not like it but understood the dilemma.

That was not the entire issue.

It was _her_. Cinnamon Carter. She often played cool and aloof but he had seen another side of her. She was warm and gentle; had an easy smile. What's more, he had held this woman in his arms and kissed her. It was in the guise of many missions but he felt Cinnamon's vulnerability, saw genuine fear in her eyes, and felt he knew her true self … an agent of great morality and kindness who should never be taken advantage of or mistreated. She was a woman who should be cherished. A _lady_ and Rollin felt the need to protect her.

'Why?' he asked himself. _Why_ she above all others he had worked with? Rollin declined to admit it even in his own mind. Once he did his life would be forever changed and he could not go there just yet. Particularly when he was certain she did not feel the same as himself.

Nevertheless, Rollin planned to have a rather loud conversation with Jim Phelps the following day.

#

**MORE TO COME.**


	3. Chapter 3

**_CHAPTER 3_**

He left Cinnamon's at around eleven pm, having imbibed perhaps a bit more brandy, and whatever else she served, than he should. He sincerely meant to go straight home to his apartment. Cinnamon had asked him to stay. At least, he thought she asked … but it was a little fuzzy in his head now. She did not think it was wise for him to leave so soon after drinking on an empty stomach. That he remembered. The something else … And, as tempting as her invitation was to stay in her guest bedroom, Rollin declined. He needed to think about how he was going to approach Jim Phelps the following day. Sleeping in the same space as Cinnamon Carter, even if it was in a completely separate room, would only be distracting.

Oddly, he did not remember leaving, did not recall her saying goodbye, or waving - nothing. Had he really been that preoccupied?

Then, as an after-thought, Rollin decided to stop off at a neighborhood bar. He felt deflated for some strange reason. It was as if he had been on a great high then dropped to an all-time low. He thought another drink might steady his nerves and clear his head. In retrospect, it was not one of his better decisions but, in general and despite the success of their mission, it hadn't been a great night for him anyway.

_Female companionship_, he thought, _would_ _be very nice_ - if only to prove to himself that_ she_ had not become an obsession … However, the two women who approached Rollin as he sat at the bar, one lovelier than the next and certainly willing, just did not appeal to him. The brunette was sultry but too crass and the redhead said all the right things but was too eager. Neither had soft, perfect pale skin or that certain look in their alluring green eyes that calmed him, made him feel safe, yet aroused him. And their voices were high and flighty – not low and throaty … He could almost feel her body in the circle of his arms …

Then the image faded away.

By the time his third scotch made its blistering way down to the pit of his empty stomach, Rollin Hand made up his mind to see Phelps that very night.

/

"Are you saying you think I'm a bad leader?"

Usually by one o'clock in the morning Jim Phelps was asleep and dreaming the dreams of a successful mission. But this evening he found himself flipping through files. A message in code had been left with his answering service. It was about a new mission that would take place in The People's Republic of Antwib, a tiny eastern bloc country that, although very small, was instrumental in keeping its larger neighbor in the east from launching missiles at a few countries friendly to the United States.

He was so wrapped up in his initial research that the loud knock on Jim's apartment door startled the normally composed agent.

The last thing he had expected to see was an inebriated Rollin Hand waiting for him on the other side, waiting in the hall. Curious, Phelps invited him in and could easily see something was wrong. Hand could be flamboyant and verbal but he was always a professional. The actor initially, as he walked in, said there was a very serious matter he needed to discuss with their "guru". His words were ever so slightly slurred but, a good actor, no one but a seasoned member of the IMF would ever know the man was not at his best.

Somehow, the conversation turned to Phelps personal life, a fidgety Rollin wondering if he had been abused as a child or if there was any discernible explanation as to why he would flat-out strike a woman for no clear reason. A stunned Jim understood it was the drink talking but he eventually got to the crux of the matter and, like Cinnamon before him, was puzzled that Rollin did not see the abuse as a part of the mission they just successfully completed. That was when he asked Rollin if he felt him a bad IMF chief. "Am I?"

"No, you're good. Really good." Feeling his legs go a little weak, Rollin sat heavily on Jim's light-colored sofa. "What I _think_ is that your methods need to be re-examined."

Jim stood in front of Rollin, the coffee table between them, and watched as Hand produced a flask from the inside of his jacket pocket. He never knew he carried one of those either. "In what way, Rollin?"

"Certainly, we do things that push the envelope when it comes to the success of a mission, Jim. I've had to make some questionable calls of my own from time to time." Rollin drank from the flask, "But when you start to smack around our own people, particularly a woman; I have to wonder where your head is."

_'And yours.'_ Phelps stared at his fellow agent for a moment as something Dan Brigg's said - just before he left the IMF - came to mind. Dan told Jim that he nearly recommended Rollin Hand as leader material, possibly to take his own place when the time came, but he pulled back at the last-minute. When Phelps asked him why he reconsidered, Briggs paused a moment. He then stared steadily at him and said: "He's an excellent operative, Jim. Rollin would take a bullet for me or any other agent … but he _feels_ too much. Personally, I think some agents mean more to him than they should."

And Briggs left it at that.

This in mind, Phelps had watched Rollin since their first mission together but never saw, until now, what Briggs was taking about. Rollin was a pro, a good spy, and a fine man. He was the type of agent Jim felt he could plan an intricate caper with, carry it out, then go out fishing with him afterward. Now, as Hand sat on his sofa, a cigarette in one hand and his flask in the other, Jim saw exactly what the former IMF leader had eluded too. He wondered why he had never seen it in the past but it was now very clear.

Rollin, in his own odd way, was defending Cinnamon Carter's honor.

Phelps had seen the looks between Rollin and Cinnamon during their mission preps, an obvious connection. Hand read her signals better (and vice versa) than any other agent on the force. That was why Jim, and Dan before him, had paired them up so often. Still, until now and recalling his talk with Briggs, it had never occurred to him that Rollin Hand might be in love with the woman.

/

"I want you over here in fifteen minutes."

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. But I think we'll get it sorted out when you get here."

/

Dawn broke, light filtering through the curtains, cutting a beam across his eyes, and Rollin discovered he was laying on Jim Phelps sofa, the same he had collapsed on the night before. A light blanket was tossed on him and his shoes were lying beside the sofa. On the coffee table he saw his emptied flask and a pack of cigarettes with only a couple sticks remaining. And his head hurt. Rollin squinted at the small blue packet next to his flask the coffee table and he reluctantly smiled, "Plop-plop-fizz-fizz" he murmured and decided Jim really was the perfect host. He detected the faint aroma of coffee in the air and once again thanked good fortune. Slowly, coughing and stretching, Rollin sat up and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, hoping it might in some way ease the pounding in his head.

What in God's name had he done last night? He never remembered falling asleep, just as he did not recall leaving Cinnamon's, and wondered if he had actually passed out. He had never done that before either. At least, not that he remembered.

"Better?" Phelps came from the bedroom, wearing a white turtleneck not dissimilar to the one he wore for the Bert Gordon mission.

"Did some gorilla take a sledgehammer to my skull?" Rollin asked, both hands now cupping his face, fingers massaging his temples.

"Between drinking over at Cinnamon's, the bar, and your own stash, I'm not surprised you're hung-over."

_Cinnamon?_ Had he mentioned to Jim that he had a drink or three at her place? He must have. Or maybe he had just talked in his sleep. Rollin thanked him for the glass of water he handed over with the already fizzy medication whirring away inside.

"It's the best I can offer." Jim said.

"It's fine, Jim." Rollin drank as he slipped on his shoes and suddenly felt very foolish. He should never have come here. "You must think I'm a total idiot." He said.

"No, not a _total_ idiot." Jim said, with a mild smile. "But I didn't realize what a temper you have after you've had a few."

Rollin finished his medicine, the nausea slowly easing away, and then held the glass out for Jim to discard. "I just got stupid-drunk and started babbling. I really don't know what got into me. Oh …" Rollin looked up at Phelps now, "I think you're a great leader so anything I might have said last night to the contrary just ignore."

"You were venting, Rollin. It must have come from somewhere."

"A bottle."

Phelps nearly said something but he heard his doorbell ring and decided to let it slide for now. He knew who, this time, was on the other side of the door.

She came in, elegantly coiffed as always, wearing a yellow dress with fine lace around the above the knee length hem. "Is he okay?" she asked and felt reassured at his curt nod.

Rollin's back straightened when he heard Cinnamon's voice. _Oh hell_, he thought, Jim really did not call her in, did he?

"So much for going straight home last night." Cinnamon said, rounding the sofa. She seemed uncharacteristically nervous, even a bit fretful, as she laid her sweater and handbag beside the sofa's side table. She looked at Jim, "He needs coffee."

Rollin shook his head and closed his eyes, "I need a shower." He corrected.

"Later." Jim said. He mimed Cinnamon to take a seat and watched as she positioned herself in his black leather arm chair and crossed her shapely legs. He took Rollin's pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and offered her one. He was surprised when she declined, waving him away, so he lit it for himself. Jim then refocused on Rollin and watched as he leaned back on the sofa cushions. "I need to know where the three of us stand."

Rollin looked over at Cinnamon and did not see an iota of confusion in her expression. Jim must have called her and told Cinnamon exactly what had happened in this apartment last night. Along with their conversation at her place she obviously came to her own conclusion. Yet, he also sensed a touch of uneasiness in her. No one else, not even Jim, could see it but Rollin did. He could not make eye contact with Cinnamon and that annoyed him. She seemed to be purposely avoiding him, looking only at Phelps. Rollin wasn't certain he liked that either.

"Rollin, it's a day later. Do you understand why Cinnamon was bruised?"

"It was for the sake of the mission." Rollin said, almost automatically. His expression was impassive but it was a performance from a good actor. His head was finally clearing and although he understood Rollin still could not support the decision. They would talk about it again but not today. He simply was not up for it. Rollin just wanted to get away from these two people as soon as he could. He sincerely did want to go home to his own apartment now and relax.

"I should not _have_ to check with you when I make decisions like that, Rollin."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"And you realize the implications?"

"Yes."

Cinnamon watched the men. It was like taking in a tennis match.

She wasn't completely certain why she was called in but when Jim phoned Cinnamon knew she had to come. She was not certain what Rollin had told him about his visit to her apartment last night but prayed Rollin had been cautious. From the looks of things he _had_ kept quiet or Jim might now be rebuking them both for their idiocy. Cinnamon had practically slapped Rollin out of her apartment last night. She had to. They both had drunk too much, allowing inhibitors to take the back seat to bad judgment. If she hadn't yelled at him, pushing him to the door, Cinnamon might have pulled him in the opposite direction, to her bedroom.

_His kiss had been that good._

/

**MORE TO COME.**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

Rollin was initially satisfied that he and Jim Phelps were parting on good terms. Their IMF leader patted him on the shoulder, shook his hand, and admitted that even the best agents have a bad night occasionally. He then opened his apartment door and sent Rollin on his way.

In retrospect, Rollin found himself concerned and a little envious when Phelps asked Cinnamon to stay behind. He wanted to have a word with her. Rollin thought about it all the way home, part of him wanting to turn the car around and see what was up. Even when he stepped foot into his own apartment he wondered if he should call Cinnamon later in the evening and ask her if there was trouble. Rollin looked at his telephone as he peeled off his outer coat, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. No, he thought, if it was important he would eventually hear from Jim and if was about Cinnamon and not himself – it was really none of his business.

With a tired exhale, pleased that the headache he had since morning was finally ebbing, the agent looked over to his balcony. He had always liked its great view of the city below. He decided to make a drink and have a seat on the deck chair. But no, nothing alcoholic, he determined. He had enough of that for a while, even though the bottle of gin to the back of his bar seemed to be calling to him. Instead, he poured himself a glass of cool water. He then walked over to the sliding door, opened it, and looked over the rail. It was a beautiful clear day, practically no smog at all.

Rollin sat down and thought about last night and this morning. These days his thoughts always seemed to return to the impressively cool blond, with the warm smile and beautiful face. The woman he called _friend_.

"You are an idiot." Rollin whispered to himself and sipped his glass of water.

/

"What did he say to you?"

"I can't imagine it wasn't anything he didn't say to you, Jim." Cinnamon attempted a charming if evasive quip but quickly saw it was not having the desired effect. If anything, Phelps appeared annoyed. She sighed inwardly and decided she was losing her touch. Humor had failed last night with Mr. Hand too. Cinnamon continued, "Rollin simply told me he was unhappy that I had to be genuinely slapped, causing the bruise, rather than the mark being applied with makeup. He didn't think it was crucial to the mission."

Jim thought about it. Her male colleagues were inclined to be protective of Cinnamon. She was special to them all. Yet, that wasn't really what was concerning him. "How long was he there, at our place?"

"Just a couple of hours. Enough for us to have a few drinks and discuss …"

_"What?"_

Cinnamon did not exactly sense paranoia in Jim's tone but she did suddenly feel she was being undeservedly grilled by her supervisor. However, her answer was mild as she replied, "Nothing important. Just small talk – between agents."

"And _friends_?" Phelps had walked about the apartment casually, puffing on his cigarette as he spoke.

"Yes, we're friends too. Sometimes it's nice to have someone to talk with, who understands the business you're in, when you have concerns. Rollin and I have known each other for a long time and ..."

"And that's all you did? _Talk?"_

Cinnamon stared at him, steady and cool, and by her silence told Phelps he had crossed a line and there really was no more to say.

"I don't mean to offend." Phelps stopped moving about, recognizing his misstep, and finally came to rest near his fireplace. He leaned on the mantel across from her. "I've never seen Rollin the way he was last night, Cinnamon. Certainly, he will decline to do a mission if he feels there is a conflict of interest. He might even question me or any of us if he sees something he does not understand or feels it might be wrong in some way. But I've never seen him, after a successful mission, come at me about something as inconsequential as a simple bruise on another agent's face." He noted that the discoloration on her cheek was gone and assumed Cinnamon must have used make-up magic to make the offending mark disappear. That was another of her talents.

"Maybe he's just stressed." Internally, Cinnamon recoiled a bit at being referred to as 'another agent' but supposed that was the price she paid for working with a mostly male organization. Some women enjoyed being 'one of the boys' and while it did have its merits Cinnamon also liked being a woman. She didn't mind being placed on a pedestal as much as some. "Edginess can happen to the best of us." she reminded.

Having said this, Cinnamon was aware of the difference between Jim and Rollin. To Phelps she was a workmate, simply another agent under his authority; part of a team. But with Rollin Hand, while still unarguably a teammate, she was also singular. And, in this respect, Cinnamon had to admit that Jim Phelps was probably the more effective leader of the two men.

Phelps squashed his cigarette out in the bronze ashtray on his coffee table, "I think I'll give him a couple of months off to think about his actions and to see if he wants to continue with the IMF."

Cinnamon suddenly appeared startled, "Don't do that. He's good Jim, the best actor and master of disguise we have, and you know it. If you cut Rollin off, show distrust, there will always be reliance issues between you two. The IMF cannot work well together if there is any doubt."

Again, Phelps looked at Cinnamon. She seemed far more alarmed by what he had proposed than Phelps thought she should. Rollin Hand did deserve discipline. Any other IMF leader would have had him suspended outright and reported him to the Secretary. Still, she had a point. Jim genuinely liked Rollin. He was a dependable man and Cinnamon was right. Rollin was the best at what he did.

Jim watched her intent expression and doubts again bubbled to the surface. When Cinnamon was relaxed and comfortable, the woman often pulled a cigarette and could smoke any of the men under the table. Yet, when she was nervous and upset, the woman did not smoke. She kept a cool outer shell; it was what she was famous for in their IMF circles but, otherwise, a cigarette would not pass her lips. When Rollin was nervous he tapped his fingers against any and all surfaces, when Barney was nervous he fidgeted with tools or whatever he could get his hands on, and when Willy was nervous he often squared his broad shoulders. Miss Carter … _did not smoke_. It was one of the nuances Phelps had picked up on over the last year.

He also wondered, once again, if Brigg's assumptions about the couple weren't right on the money.

This was definitely something he would have to keep an eye on in the future.

/

He closed his eyes while reclining in his chair on the balcony. The imagery that suddenly invaded Rollin's mind, the odd flashes of dreams or memory, startled him.

"No …" she moaned (or was it himself?), "You … _We_ need to stop … now."

But the feel of her soft throat against lips, the smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin – and even the sound of her voice, the low throaty growl of possible rejection as she clutched him in complete contrast to what she (or he) was demanding ….

His eyes opened wide. It was no dream. It had happened - but then Cinnamon pushed him away, even slapped him, perhaps feeling revulsion (or guilt?) at his liberty. She demanded he leave and he did.

Why did he not remember that until now? _'Because you were drunk!_' his mind supplied. But no, it was more than that. Rollin had pushed it from his mind because he did not want to _believe_ he had been wrong … She did not feel the same as himself. It was obvious and disheartening.

Rollin felt a mixture of fear and disappointment. He was afraid because he may have destroyed a close but delicate trust between him and the woman. They had been very comfortable with one another, secure and safe. But if he had done something stupid, had forced himself on Cinnamon, demanding something she was unwilling to give him – he might have pushed her out of his life forever. Rollin was not just exasperated by a possible departure but because he was sincerely sorry he did not remember much about it. He had fleeting feelings and the memory of her perfume … and now the slap of her hand.

Deliberating, Rollin was somewhat jarred when he heard his doorbell chime.

/

Clutching her handbag, feeling a little ridiculous and biting back on an urge to turn about and run away, Cinnamon waited on the opposite side of the door.

They needed to have this out once and for all.

/

**Continued.**

**The next chapter should be the conclusion. Thanks for your comments!**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter 5_**

Many years ago, when he was still a boy but merging on manhood, someone – probably his wise old Aunt Isobel – told young Rollin Hand that when it came to girls and desires of the heart he better be willing to pay the price if he acted without self-control. Who knew that such a declaration, as cautionary as it was, could relate now to a man in his prime; an actor with worldly experience and a seemingly limitless amount of constraint.

He awoke to the gentle tick-tick-tick of his bedside clock. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden luminosity over the room. Rollin gently turned over and looked at her as she slept. Her blond hair, always well-coiffed above her slender shoulders, was slightly disheveled and the woman's expression – often cool and reserved for the benefit of their missions – was now relaxed and softened in the low light. A thought, in the aftermath and glow of their love-making, came to Rollin. He would give everything he had to be able to wake every morning and gaze at this stunning, warm, and remarkable woman. That young idealistic boy, he realized, was not so far away after all.

A more down to earth notion intruded on his pondering. Rollin did not, by any means, feel regret for what they had done. Yet, in retrospect, he wondered if Cinnamon – an often times far more analytical thinker than he - would come to feel remorse. He was certain this was not her intent when she came to see him … But the moment he opened the door and saw her there, appearing lovely and uncharacteristically nervous, at a loss for words as he asked her to enter, Rollin Hand could not help the urge to hold her in his arms.

Cinnamon Carter simply looked like a woman in need of an act of tenderness.

She then pulled back abruptly, expression stupefied, and looked into his startled blue eyes.

For a moment Rollin thought she was going to slap him again. And oddly, in that moment of ambiguity, he suddenly saw a beautiful young girl. She had been ignored by the adults around her, looking for love where there was none, but cherishing all those who turned her away. She was a woman-child who grieved deeply but nevertheless could not cry at her grandmother's funeral …

Cinnamon wanted to speak but instead her arms wrapped themselves around his neck, her fingers running through the hair at the back of his head. Kisses and passion followed. It was inevitable. Before Cinnamon knew it she and Rollin were in his bedroom, pulling at one another's clothes, whispering softly, yearning for the feel of physical stimulation, skin on skin, and a further need to fulfill an even deeper craving. Nature took its course. At last.

She was intoxicating even as she slept and Rollin, not for the first time, understood why when Cinnamon Carter flirted during missions, men fell in line. She had a certain alluring power that moved people. It was more than a beautiful face and shapely figure. It was _her_.

Rollin looked away from Cinnamon ever so slightly, concentrating on memory. He was sure the others in their Impossible Missions Force sensed her magnetism. Jim Phelps had never made a secret that he found her exquisite and, when she needed to be a seductress, he blatantly called her: "Damn sexy". It was that special something which made Cinnamon Carter's ability to divert attention, whether she was sent to seduce a target or simply walk by thus distracting their mark, so unique and successful.

Yet, for Rollin, this set off another series of worries...

Was the passion he and Cinnamon just shared a sincere act of love or merely an infatuation brought about by her considerable charms? Rollin knew he had lost his heart to her, whether intended or not, but was she just as enraptured? Or had they made a terrible mistake? Still, when he thought about it, how they had whispered endearments while making love and looked at one another with wonder, desire and a smiling acceptance. And pleasure; an incredible soul saturating gratification ... _How could it be wrong?_ Rollin nearly laughed out loud. Was there any wonder now why he had been so disturbed when learning Jim Phelps had slapped her? It was something out of a romance novel, Rollin thought, but he _was_ definitely a man in love and hopelessly captivated.

Cinnamon opened her eyes and had stared at him for some time, appraising Rollin's thoughtful and distracted expression as he seemed to look over her shoulder to a far wall. She wondered what was on his mind. Certainly, their love-making was rash and careless, she thought, but not altogether unanticipated. As hard as she had tried to avoid romance with Rollin Hand the fates seemed hell-bent on driving them together.

His tall lean body had beckoned to her during their embrace, when she first entered into his apartment. His shoulders and upper arms were nicely muscled, but not so big as to suffocate ... and there was something adrift and lonely in his expression … and she wanted him desperately. The intensity of passion both had shown truly stunned her. Rollin was a man of secrets and deep feeling and until he had revealed himself to Jim last night she was the only one who saw it.

And now here they were … She had whispered "Love me." when he lowered her to the bed and was astounded by her reaction to his touch. Cinnamon could not ever remember a time when she felt so utterly vulnerable, when she had wanted a man to not just love her but lead the way. She wanted to be seduced, not be the initiator, and she marveled at Rollin's proficiency, instinctively knowing where to touch and kiss her, loving her gently as if she were a pure, chaste bride …. It was uncomplicated and perfect. Cinnamon was lost in desire, his skill driving her beyond anything the woman thought she could experience. Did Rollin know he held such power over women? Or was it just her?

But now, hours later, it was not so simple. They were both, in a sense, married to their jobs and Phelps was already suspicious of their relationship. How long would they be able to keep this private? What would be the repercussions if any of the others found out? Should they even entertain the very idea of an ongoing affair?

He sensed her disquiet and gently reached over, laying a hand on her bare arm. "Satisfactory?" he asked, gentle humor in his expression.

In reply she smiled and countered his touch, cupping his cheek and softly touching his lower lip with the tip of her thumb. "A delight." she whispered, "My quick-tempered … _lover_."

Once again, he leaned in and kissed her. Despite their deep thoughts and concerns, Rollin and Cinnamon were powerless now to think beyond this afternoon. They once again whispered deep secrets and loved profoundly and intensely.

Let the world and the IMF go away, Cinnamon thought. She wanted … she _needed_ him now.

/

By the time they showered and dressed, night had fallen.

"I'm starving. Would you like to go out?" he asked, a bit too casually.

"You know we can't, Rollin." she said, speaking somewhat shyly as she picked up her purse from where it had been tossed on the sofa. She avoided looking at him, unexpectedly nervous. "I should just go home."

"Must you?" A rush of flashbacks suddenly assaulted Rollin's mind; his action and her reaction to his liberties of the night before. She had pushed him away and slapped him … He tried valiantly to hang onto that string of reality. Cinnamon had come here initially as a repentant friend, to inform him of Jim's demeanor, and to apologize for her own behavior. Cinnamon hadn't yet realized that Rollin had a very fuzzy memory of their falling-out. She wanted to talk and mend fences, tell him he wasn't the only one that had too much to drink.

But this time she too had been caught up in the moment. When he touched her, looked at her with those incredible blue eyes, she could do nothing but surrender to her feelings.

Rollin inwardly sighed. Despite the beauty of their coupling, was Cinnamon now disappointed that he could not leave well enough alone; that he had made her helpless to fight off his advances this time? Rollin had to believe there was more to it than that. "Are you angry?" he suddenly asked.

Cinnamon appeared taken aback, "No … not at all." Then, she admitted, as he picked up her sweater and draped it around her shoulders from behind, "I'm just a little worried is all, Rollin." She turned around and looked at him, placing her hands gently on his lapels as he loosely held her. "Can we go on from here, working together on assignments, and _not_ allowing it to interfere with our personal life?"

"I believe we can." He said and smiled. The way Cinnamon was talking suddenly warmed him. She was eluding to a future together. This had not been a one time event. Now, more than ever before, he was certain he and she were on the same page. "Our private life is just that. I don't need to know about Barney or Willy's nights and weekends and they know nothing of ours. That is the way it ought to be."

Cinnamon could not help levity touched with sarcasm, "But I doubt Barney and Willy are having a romantic relationship." She suddenly felt concerned when she saw the smile fade from Rollin's lips. "This is what we are having, right? A _relationship_?"

A hand lifted to touch her hair, "Yes. I want that more than anything. A long, satisfying relationship."

Relieved, Cinnamon softly collapsed into his arms, resting her head on Rollin's shoulder. "I am so glad you said that because I am not the type of woman who falls into a man's bed for a brief fling. You made me feel things …"

"I know." He pulled her back gently to look into her lovely eyes, seeing both the lonely girl and the desirable woman who was Cinnamon Carter. "I _know_." He repeated.

They gazed at one another.

Cinnamon and Rollin would keep their bond a secret for nearly two years before leaving the IMF to marry.

/

Two months after their initial liaison, Cinnamon lay in Rollin's arms as they sat on her sofa, the soft hum of the television – with an old black and white romantic classic – setting a mood. Rollin had seemed a little distracted and she thought it might have been their most recent mission.

They had gone under cover; playing husband and wife. Rollin was forced to dismantle an explosive device Cinnamon was sitting near. It had unnerved both. Then, when he had his heart attack, a ploy to move the mission along, it was not difficult for Cinnamon to draw on her own feelings. How would she react if she truly had lost the man she loved? Yet, the mission had been a resounding success and if Phelps had any further doubt with regards to two of his best agents, he seemed to have disregarded it for a more practical point of view. Cinnamon and Rollin worked well together and there was no reasons to break up that chemistry. Why make waves?

"Something is on your mind. I can tell." Cinnamon said.

"Nothing important." he replied.

She shifted in his arms and looked up at him. "Tell me."

"I was thinking of Andre Fetchicov." He said and waited for her reaction.

"_Why_ would you think of him?"

"I know you felt something for Andre …"

"Rollin, I …"

"And I know it's in the past. I just sometimes worry that our missions make us susceptible to a handsome face or an uncommon chemistry."

"Like what you had with Felicia DeVarr?" she asked, unflinching.

_Oh_, he thought but tried to brush it away. "She tried to kill me, Cinnamon."

"And Andre attempted to kill me too." She lifted a hand and allowed her fingers to brush his brow. "I would like to think we are both past that nonsense. Back then we were alone, and yes, maybe we were a bit more receptive to a pretty face. That and a unique and appealing surface character … despite what they truly were. But now it's different."

"You're right." His smile reached his eyes. "_I_ will never bring it up again."

"Good." She countered and lay once again in the comfort of his embrace.

**EPILOGUE:**

Theirs would not be an uncomplicated romance. Cinnamon and Rollin would face trials and arguments, confidences shared only between the two of them, but also declarations of a deep, eternal love. They tried not to talk about the future at any length because their work made such a conversation uncomfortable. Both were prepared to be caught or killed for the IMF – which did not bode well for a happy old couple with a comfortable retirement income.

However, it would all come to a head when, during a mission in The East European People's Republic, Cinnamon would tell Rollin that although the payoff of the mission had been a grand achievement, she was no longer sure she wanted to be placed in harm's way again. This time it had been too close, nearly being strangled to death by a mad-man and, in the privacy of his apartment, in his bed, Cinnamon was visibly frightened.

He agreed. Rollin's protective nature made itself known once again – as it had so many months before when Jim Phelps had bruised her for the sake of a mission – and Rollin would tell Cinnamon it was time for them to leave. He showed little to no regret. A decision was made and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved.

It was that simple.

They married shortly after an intense debriefing by The Secretary. They honeymooned in Europe. One month after they returned from their vacation Cinnamon discovered she was pregnant.

They had moved on from the IMF … and were happy.

**THE END**

**Spring 2013**

_Hi Jean, you surprised me with this finale. I thought it was going to be a lot of talking heads, a deep conversation between Rollin and Cinnamon on his sofa, wondering where they were going from here. And yeah, it was that, but you also managed to mix some truly deep feeling in there as well as physical love! Thank you for seeking me out and asking me to beta for you. I hope you like my suggestions of Cinnamon's past and Rollin's uncertainty. Getting them in bed is one thing but there really has to be something to drive it along, not just before but after too. This is a huge step for them as a couple! Take care. Becky_

**_Thank you, Beckers, for the help! Stickgirl_**

**_/_**

**_Episodes mentioned in this chapter:_**

_"A Short Tail Spy" (Andre)_

_"Illusion" (Cinnamon strangled)_

_"The Spy" (Felicia)_

_"Recovery" (husband and wife)_


End file.
